Whispers

A banquet of food for thought,

Of knowledge that was never taught

A feast of silent communication,

Sharp senses give remuneration

To taste the trees in the breeze,

And rich musk of sodden earth,

That mingles through the rustling leaves

Fingers caress the wet cold stones

Where the fresh clear waters roam

All vegetation lush and sweet,

The blade of grass on which I feast

All strange creatures pass this way,

of me, could they speak, what would they say

Foxgloves hung like delicate bells,

Nature knows, her secret tells

She whispers soft in language pure,

Always right and always sure

Speaking tongs in words profound,

Her naked truth she dose expound